Bane doesn't react. Doesn't need to. His stillness is the reaction. The youngest brother who volunteered to walk into a cage and didn't flinch—that story is sitting at this table whether he says anything or not.
But this time, I’m not talking about my little brother.
I’m talking face to face with the man I have no problems slaughtering. Skinning alive and then tearing his muscles off the bone, just to listen to his screams.
Talbot studies the three of us. His water glass goes up. Comes down. His eyes move from me to Atlas to Bane and back, and I can see the read happening—the calculation behind the charm, the predator assessing whether the prey still has teeth.
"I respect the loyalty," he says. "Truly. The way you three rallied around your stepbrother was impressive.Moving, even." He sets the glass down. "But a rescue doesn't change a balance sheet. You got Max out. Well done. The operation that funded that rescue is now bleeding from a dozen wounds, and I'm the one holding the gauze."
Atlas opens his mouth to speak—I can see the counter forming, the reframe, the thing he's going to try to sell as leverage—and Talbot cuts him off.
"Both businesses can exist, Atlas. You're right about that. But not as equals. Not anymore. The infrastructure gap is too wide. You don't have the routes to compete with me and you don't have the capital to rebuild them. What you have is a name, a handful of loyal people, and a very impressive family reputation that I have no interest in destroying." He spreads his hands. "Fifteen percent of a much larger operation. Your name on the door. Your people employed. That's generous, and I'd like you to recognize that."
Atlas is quiet. The frame he was holding—thewe can coexist frame, the let's redraw the linesframe—is lying on the floor between them and Talbot stepped over it without looking down.
I watch my brother try to find the next move. His eyes doing the thing. The scan, the calculation, the pivot.
Nothing comes.
"There's one more item," Talbot says.
I look up.
The temperature in his voice drops. The charm is still there but it's thinner now, stretched over something harder. He's looking at a point between the three of us, the way a man looks when he wants every word to land on every target at once.
"The omega."
One word. The room changes shape around it.
"Last time we sat at a table like this, your family made extraordinary concessions to retrieve him. Gave up territory, revenue, leverage—all for one boy." Talbot turns his water glass by the rim. Slow. "That told me something. That told me exactly what he's worth to you. And anything worth that much to you is worth something to me."
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. The vacuum on the other side of the wall has stopped and the silence in the brick is total.
"If this deal doesn't close," Talbot continues, conversational, almost bored, "I'll take him again. It won't be difficult. I know where he lives. I know his schedule. I know which coffee shop he goes to with the girl—Wren, is it? Lovely name. I know which route he drives and I know he drives it alone. An omega with a scent profile like his, walking around unguarded—"
My chair moves.
Not much. Half an inch. My thighs pushing against the underside of the table before I've made any conscious decision to stand. The scrape of the chair legs on the concrete floor is a small ugly sound and everyone in the room hears it.
Talbot's security men shift their weight. The tall one's hand moves toward his left side. The ankle guy straightens.
Bane's hand lands on my forearm. Hard. Bruising. His fingers dig into the meat of my arm. He doesn't look at me.
I stop.
Half an inch. That's what Bane is holding me by. Half an inch and five fingers and the knowledge that if I stand all the way up, two men die and then Talbot dies and then we have a war we can't win instead of a deal we can't stomach.
Talbot watches me. The warm smile hasn't left his face. If anything, it's gotten warmer—the satisfied warmth of a man who just confirmed a theory.
"Interesting," he says. To the room. To no one.
He turns back to Atlas.
"As I was saying. I have buyers who would pay a premium for him. Private clients. Discreet. The kind who appreciate a rare scent profile and aren't particularly interested in a résumé." He picks a piece of lint off his sleeve. "His evaluation numbers fromthe facility are still on file, by the way. Exceptional marks across the board. There was real demand. I had to turn people away."
The bond in my chest goes white-hot. Not a flare—a sustained burn, the filament connecting me to Max lighting up like a wire carrying too much current. My vision has narrowed to a tunnel with Talbot at the end of it. I can feel my pulse in my teeth. In my fists. In the place where Bane's fingers are digging into my forearm hard enough to leave marks that will still be there tomorrow.
"Of course," Talbot says, and his voice shifts—lighter, almost amused, the tone of a man delivering a punchline he's been saving, "judging by the way the three of you just reacted, I'm guessing the product isn't exactly...factory freshanymore. Is it?"
